


A Versatile Word

by BlackBat09



Series: The Mentor [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, M/M, Underage Drinking, an AU of The Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5604652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09/pseuds/BlackBat09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: How Geoff Ramsey Goes from Comparing His Life to a Locked Bicycle Frame to Feeling Almost Optimistic, Thanks to Jon Risinger</p><p>Missing Michael and loathing Chewelah, the last thing Geoff expects to make him feel better is a random text from an old student. He'd mostly been putting his stock in alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Versatile Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mightbeanasshole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398916) by [mightbeanasshole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole). 



> Been teasing Kelly with this for a week or so- here it is in its finished glory. Happy New Year, y'all.

The first word that comes to mind when Geoff Ramsey is asked how he’s doing is, of late, _fuck._

It’s a versatile expletive; one of his favorites, really, second only maybe to _dicks_ ; and it perfectly describes how his year has been. Chewelah, Washington, is as it’s ever been, tiny and cold and lethargic, and it seems even smaller and colder and more exhausting with Michael gone at college.

And, sure, he hears from his boyfriend plenty, frequent phone calls from the younger man to gossip about teachers and talk about reading assignments, even some calls just for, shockingly, the pleasure of keeping in contact. But it’s still lonely as fuck, knowing he’s here in Chewelah and Michael’s there in Bellingham, in Ryan’s spare room.

Geoff has no problem with Michael living with Ryan, by the way.

At least, not unless he’s had an unreasonable amount of liquor for the night and conveniently forgets that Ryan is dating Narvaez, and that Michael _loves him_ , and instead focuses on his own flaws as an old, shitty, drunken, big-eared punk teaching high school English in Assfuck, Coldsberg.

There’s also the new class of seniors to deal with; not awful kids at all, but just unfamiliar and a bit uncomfortable for now, sort of like breaking in new shoes.

One or two of them are decidedly distracting, Geoff admits to himself and no one else, especially not Michael. Trevor Collins, for example, in his second period, is the biggest kiss-ass in the universe, working hard with incessant smiles and infectious laughter to cement himself as teacher’s pet for the year. He’s even told Geoff to call him ‘Treyco’, something he absolutely refuses to do because _good God,_ will it get him in trouble.

Good teachers do not call their students cute nicknames. It’s his daily mantra, the reminder he has to whisper to himself every time he acknowledges Trevor’s raised hand and stumbles over the teen’s name.

There’s also Jeremy Dooley, of fifth period. He’s short but broad, shoulders and chest built with thick muscle that the kid had let slip was from years of gymnastics; when Geoff had asked if he was any good, Jeremy had snorted a little before falling quiet, sheepishly offering directions to a YouTube video of himself that had left Geoff speechless. And it isn’t just the gymnastics, either: no, the kid has to be multitalented, practically a prodigy.

He has a knack for poetry, both reading and analyzing it, and it was only when he’d shyly asked Geoff to proofread something for him after class one day that Geoff realized the kid could also _write_ poetry, and goddamn if that triple threat wasn’t dangerously hurtling Jeremy towards favorite status. Burnie also speaks highly of the kid’s work in his media class, and even the normally-quiet art teacher Patrick slips his way into conversations to praise Jeremy’s drawings.

Talented, yet staunchly modest, and oh-so-eager to please, Jeremy is _infuriating._ The fact that he sometimes calls Geoff “boss” in that thick Bostonian accent, usually with a little slur of sleep-deprivation, is just another reason Geoff is definitely becoming a high-functioning alcoholic this year.

So, yes, _fuck_ accurately describes Geoff’s current state of being.

* * *

 

He’s eating lunch one day when life throws him an admittedly soft curveball, his phone buzzing with a message from an unknown number that he quickly checks, only to find himself more confused.

It’s a picture message; no caption, no indication of who sent it, just a picture that Geoff taps to open up larger and analyze. The subject of the photo is a red bike frame, and only the frame, hooked to a bike rack. There are other bikes around it, edging into the shot a little, but it’s obvious the composition is centered on the sad-looking frame.

The absurdity increases the longer Geoff looks. There are not one, but two bike locks holding the frame to the rack, one a cable lock and the other a U-lock, both hooked around it in places that make it impossible to move the frame itself, but apparently not to steal _almost_ _everything else_. Both wheels are missing, as well as the seat and the handlebars, and when he stops being amused about the situation, Geoff realizes it’s a little sad.

The bike can’t go anywhere, because it’s locked in place, but even if someone were to take the locks off, it’s still stuck where it is, with no way to move from its sad spot, balanced on the front fork and the pedals as bikes that are still whole move and go on around it.

He stares a while longer before shaking himself, realizing that he’s equating what’s probably an inside joke sent to a wrong number to his own life, and wishes he had packed a flask with his lunch.

>>Geoff: I think you may have the wrong number

With that, Geoff clicks his screen off, shoving his phone into his pocket and finishing his lunch, which goes from tasting like decent food to ash and self-loathing. If the semester continues like this, he’s going to start buying gas station food and eating in his classroom again.

* * *

 

His phone buzzes again shortly after fifth period lets out, a response from the mysterious photographer of the lonely bike frame. The preview in the banner at the top of his screen does not start with “sorry”, as he expected it would if he got a response at all, but rather, “oh shit”, and Geoff is immediately intrigued.

>>Unknown: Oh shit, sorry Mr. Ramsey. I forgot I never actually texted you when Michael first gave me your number. It’s Jon Risinger.

Well. That’s.

Unexpected.

Geoff blinks down at his phone for a moment, wondering why in the hell Michael was giving out his phone number, even if it was to other former students; then why Risinger had needed his phone number in the first place; and, finally, what the fuck was up with the bike. None of that comes across in his text.

>>Geoff: Hey buddy, how’s it going?  
>>Jon: I’m alive. Just got out of class, didn’t see your text until just now.  
>>Geoff: That’s fine. Gotta stay focused.  
>>Jon: Definitely. It’s just I’ve been meaning to send you that for so long, but it kept slipping my mind, and so I got it in as I was running to graphic design and totally forgot to explain it.

Ah. So the picture was intentional, and apparently meaningful. Geoff wants to hear this.

>>Geoff: If you don’t have a class now, I’d love an explanation.  
>>Jon: It reminded me of the discussion about immortality we had in your class at one point, about becoming immortal but losing your ability to fulfill your purpose in life?  
>>Jon: And the bike’s been locked in front of the library since last year, according to my orientation leaders, so it’s functionally immortal, but it can’t transport people or move anymore.  
>>Jon: Plus with people stealing its parts, it adds a layer to it. Like if you’re immortal and can’t achieve your destiny, you lose pieces of yourself.  
>>Jon: So yeah, I was waxing philosophical about a bike frame and figured since the basis of the theory was your fault, I’d share.

And Geoff’ll admit, he’s impressed. He definitely sees where Jon is coming from, looking back at the photo and thinking on that class discussion. And Jon’s explanation can help him distance himself from the comparison to his own life that he sees in the picture, so he’s very appreciative of that.

>>Geoff: Well damn, kid. Good one.  
>>Jon: Thanks.  
>>Geoff: I have to ask, though, why did you get my number from Michael?  
>>Jon: Oh, I was trying to remember the wording of one of your arguments about the effectiveness of rhyme to shut up some girl who was trying to say rhyming poems were for people without enough “creative spirit”.  
>>Jon: But it turns out I had it in my class notebook, so I was able to back up my point. Plus as a white girl with dreadlocks, she doesn’t really get to criticize anyone.

Geoff bursts into most genuine laughter that’s come out of him a long time: high, pealing giggles spill out so suddenly that the student walking into his classroom jumps, looking at him in confusion and maybe concern before she smiles, rolls her eyes, and takes her seat for sixth period. How can Geoff not laugh, though, at the mental image of Jon Risinger, wide-eyed and chubby, going red in the face as he lays into a dreadlocked girl with Geoff’s words and the young man’s own signature brand of ire?

It’s fucking _funny_ , and it makes Geoff smile without the ache of longing that comes with smiling during a conversation with Michael, or the wariness of directing a smile towards Trevor or Jeremy.

>>Geoff: Jesus, Jon. I’ve got a class to teach but you’ve gotta tell me more later.  
>>Jon: Can do. Have a good class, Mr. Ramsey.  
>>Geoff: You’re not my student anymore, you can call me Geoff.  
>>Jon: Mmmmmm I dunno, kinda weird. But okay, Geoff.  
>>Jon: Nope, forget it, that’s super weird. Mr. Ramsey.

Geoff laughs again, the chuckle quieter than the last as he shakes his head and pockets his phone.

He’s in a good mood. Genuinely, a _very_ good mood. It’s weird.

It’s nice.

He finds himself looking forward to texting Jon again.

* * *

 

Their conversations continue throughout the semester, sometimes about Jon’s poetry classes or other coursework, sometimes about shitty dormmates, often about the pictures Jon sends Geoff, glimpses of his sunny California campus that somehow make Geoff warm inside, rather than just highlight the cold surrounding him in Chewelah.

Geoff has to marvel at the photos, as well. Jon takes pictures with an iPhone that Geoff couldn’t manage with a thousand-dollar camera, images that Geoff shows to Patrick, who compliments Jon’s composition and lighting and so many more things that Geoff knows nothing about. He relays some of those compliments to Jon, who asks him how long he had to listen to Patrick talk to learn how to compliment his dynamic symmetry.

When the next picture comes, Geoff says he likes the pretty colors, and Jon tells him to go talk to Pat so he can properly stroke his ego.

He notices, after about a month, that none of the pictures Jon sends are of himself. He sends snapshots of campus life, mostly: colorful hammocks dotting a wide shot of a campus green, barefoot students on slacklines strung between tree trunks, a frat practicing a dance routine, a line of students in pajama pants and windbreakers winding out the door of the campus ice cream shop at midnight.

But not a single picture of Jon. Geoff considers asking him about this, but realizes it’d be kinda weird to ask the kid for pictures of himself. So he lets it be, keeping up the friendly text conversations and fun, lighthearted banter.

Until.

* * *

 

One late Friday night, when Geoff’s swigging whiskey and flipping through his poetry books, he receives a photo from Jon. At this time, he expects another picture of the midnight ice cream line, but instead, it’s a picture of someone’s face from the nose down, a smattering of dark, patchy facial hair around their mouth and chin, and the lip of a red plastic cup peeking into the bottom of the frame.

>>Jon: thank god soneone brought tquila rose  
>>Jon: not all of us csn drink gluten piss water

Geoff stares at the picture and subsequent texts for a long moment, trying to puzzle out _what the fuck exactly is going on_ , and realizes that Jon has likely just sent him a drunken selfie. Oh. Well then.

>>Geoff: Have you been drinking?

It takes a few moments before Jon texts back, the message once again garbled with typos.

>>Jon: course not, im at a frat party holdng a red solo cup an drinking gingerale  
>>Jon: dont ask szstupid questons

Setting down his whiskey, Geoff leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his free hand as he tries to figure out what he should even say. On one hand, Jon is underage; Geoff should really be telling him to go home to his dorm. But on the other hand, Geoff really can’t say shit about irresponsible drinking, as he’s the poster boy for People Who Need AA Meetings. He lets his head slip down a little, hand dragging across his face until he can press the heel against his temple and rub circles into the freshly-aching spot.

>>Geoff: Please tell me someone sober is taking you home.  
>>Jon: im not a fcuking idiot  
>>Jon: the friend who invited me doesnt drink  
>>Jon: i wasnt gona until i saw they had somethin other thnan beer  
>>Geoff: Who the hell brings tequila rose to a frat party?  
>>Jon: my new best frind

Geoff sighs heavily, massaging his temple more firmly as he tries to figure out what he should do in this situation, what to say. He’s coming up blank, and it reminds him of the first serious talk he’d ever had with Jon, which he’d also fumbled through with minimal finesse and a lack of proper direction.

Fuck it. He doesn’t know.

>>Geoff: Jon, find your sober buddy and get him to take you home.  
>>Geoff: I don’t wanna know what pictures you start sending after another cup of tequila.  
>>Jon: your a fuckign buzzkill  
>>Jon: but fine ill go  
>>Jon: havea good night mr ramset  
>>Jon: ramsey  
>>Geoff: Get some sleep, kid.

When no more texts come in, Geoff takes it as a good sign; but he can’t deny, as he finishes his whiskey and gets ready for bed, that worries for Jon lurk in the back of his mind.

He’ll text the kid around noon tomorrow and ask him how he’s holding up.

* * *

 

By the time Geoff wakes up at ten, there’s already a message from Jon.

>>Jon: I am so, so very sorry. That will never happen again. I’m so sorry, Geoff.

Geoff sighs at the message. He’d sent similar ones himself after a hard night, especially to Michael, and his heart aches for poor Jon, probably hungover as shit in his dorm room.

>>Geoff: Jon, I advised a frat at Coastal. I can handle drunken texts.  
>>Jon: Still sorry.  
>>Geoff: I’ll accept your apology if you’re drinking water and eating to help the hangover.

There are a few minutes of radio silence that seem almost guilty, making Geoff chuckle to himself, before Jon sends a picture of a liter bottle of water, about a third of it gone, and a stack of McDonald’s hash browns.

>>Jon: I had to take a gluten pill, because fuck allergies, I wanted hashbrowns  
>>Geoff: They are good hangover food, even if they’re mostly grease.  
>>Jon: Isn’t that the best part?  
>>Geoff: Good point.  
>>Geoff: How are you holding up?

In about two minutes, Geoff gets another picture: the first full selfie of their interactions.

Jon’s hair has gotten longer, curling down toward his earlobes rather than the short coif he’d sported senior year, and his face has thinned out, his cheekbones and jaw more defined now that the baby fat has begun to melt away. His lips are the only thing that haven’t thinned, and they’re twisted in a wry little smirk that perfectly complements Jon's patchy efforts at facial hair and the dark, dark circles under his impossibly bright blue eyes.

This kid has to have some sort of magic to him, to even take good selfies while hungover.

>>Jon: Like fuckshit  
>>Geoff: Well, you don’t look it. You mostly look tired.  
>>Jon: Why thank you!  
>>Jon: I feel like shit, but at least I’m pretty.  
>>Jon: Is this what women deal with?

Geoff snorts at the sarcasm, shaking his head a little as he slides out of bed and trails to the kitchen, the picture of hash browns from before making him realize that he should probably eat some sort of brunch.

>>Geoff: I’m not exactly the person to ask.  
>>Jon: Not in touch with your feminine side, Geoff?  
>>Jon: Boo. Negative points. Woman up.  
>>Geoff: You’re a mess, kid.  
>>Jon: You have no idea.

Something about the tone of the last text, and perhaps all the texts of the last twenty-four hours, sits wrong in Geoff, and he pauses setting up his coffeepot to look down at his phone in concern.

>>Geoff: You know, if you ever need anything, to talk about serious shit or whatever, I’m here.

Jon goes quiet long enough for Geoff to grind beans, scooping them into his machine when his phone finally vibrates. It’s another nose-down picture of the kid’s face, the lid of his water visible as he apparently raises his bottle to Geoff and offers a small smile, soft and genuine. It makes Geoff smile, too, some of his worry abating.

>>Jon: Thanks, Geoff. For everything.  
>>Jon: I’m gonna finish my food and pass out again  
>>Geoff: You’re welcome, Jon.

So maybe _fuck_ doesn’t quite describe Geoff’s year so far, at least not in the hopeless, dejected, drunken manner it had before. Maybe it’s more of an amused, disbelieving interjection, or a fond, half-chuckled sigh.

It’s a versatile word, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me at blackbat09 on tumblr if you want!


End file.
